


"Wake Up"

by ab2fsycho



Series: Hold My Tea and Watch This [11]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Jack has a serious phobia, M/M, Pitch is possessive, Trauma, Waking Up, and distraught, and very pissed, as usual, comas suck, couldn't stop thinking about what was going to happen next, so here you go, still sucking at tags, we knew this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack still hasn't woken up after the attack, and Pitch is an anxious wreck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Wake Up"

**Author's Note:**

> Earl Grey and Irish Breakfast is such a magical blend that I managed to get inspired at 6AM.

Pitch hadn’t gotten a name from the monkey men, but he did know that their leader did not mean well for the rest of the world. From the way they had made it sound, this new enemy was ancient and had it out for those who could potentially get in his way. That meant no Guardian, chosen or not, was safe. And while Pitch wouldn’t bat an eye at the loss of one such as the rabbit, Jack was another story entirely.

The boy still hadn’t woken up. Pitch had stopped counting the days. Time seemed frozen in the north.

There was a belief among humans that if one watched a pot of water while waiting for it to boil, it would take longer. While this seemed completely improbable in Pitch’s mind, it very clearly described how he felt. He hid under Jack’s bed, finding comfort in the darkness. He waited, desperate to hear the young Guardian’s voice. Every now and then, he would emerge from his hiding place and check the progress of Jack’s wounds. The bruises were fading slowly. The scratches weren’t quite as angry and raw. He didn’t know if the bones were mending, and he didn’t know how to check without further harming the boy. Jack’s breathing was even. Too even. Too even and too light. Pitch swore that the boy was getting warmer every day. Warmth in a winter spirit was never a good sign.

He very rarely left Jack unattended. He very rarely left Jack at all. Now that he’d dealt with the perpetrators, he felt useless. He felt immobile. The most he felt capable of doing was fetch rags drenched in freezing water that numbed even his hands and try to stave the heat from growing on the boy’s body. Pitch thought he’d known what fear was. He thought he’d banished this sort of fear from his mind. But no. It was swelling within him at a rate he could not control. It hurt.

Sometimes one of the other Guardians would show up. They knew Pitch was there, hiding in the shadows. They’d simply grown used to him hovering around the boy. It had taken them long enough. None of them spoke to him. Pitch liked it that way. They each had their own ways of dealing with the pain and fear. Their fear was a small source of nourishment for Pitch, but the reason for the fear was almost sickening to him. Sanderson would sprinkle sand in Jack’s eyes. The Cossack would leave confections on a side table. The twit would cease the endless hovering and actually sit in a chair for a short period of time, checking the bandages and adjusting the sling. The rabbit was the worst. He would just stare at the youngest Guardian, trying his hardest to hold in what he was feeling. Pitch hated that he could see through the façade. Knowing what the rabbit was feeling was almost as bad as reliving an agony he had tried very hard to forget he’d known.

He wished that he’d kept better tabs on Jack. After having the Guardian all to himself for a month, he’d thought the boy could use some space. Pitch was possessive, but he didn’t want Jack to feel smothered. Somehow he’d known something wasn’t right. It wasn’t because Jack hadn’t visited. It wasn’t because Jack had disappeared for long. The attack had occurred within a week of Jack’s release from the lair. Pitch had just known. Something had simply felt wrong, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He could almost feel Jack’s absence from the world, and the first place he thought to check was the Workshop. It had been a big risk for the Boogeyman to appear in his enemy’s quarters, but he’d done it before. He would gladly do it again.

The sight of Jack had been gut-wrenching. Pitch felt like someone had walked straight through him, a feeling he’d grown accustomed to again. He corrected himself; he’d felt like several people had walked through him at once.

The thoughts running through Pitch’s head made him curl into a ball under Jack’s bed. He closed his eyes, cursing himself again for not watching closer. He could easily blame the twit for not finding Jack in time to help him, but he really just wanted to blame himself. He couldn’t blame Jack. Jack had simply done what he’d always done: he’d gotten bored and fallen asleep on a branch. He’d never been attacked in that state, and despite Pitch’s warnings he likely still didn’t expect to be attacked. Blaming anyone besides himself seemed inadequate. Ultimately, the Nightmare King had failed to protect what was his.

Pitch was roused from his thoughts when he became aware of Jack’s breathing. It was quickening, turning into short gasps. Then there was a scream. Pitch moved faster than he’d ever thought possible. Jack’s back was arched, his whole body tense as he screamed. Pitch took the boy’s face in his hands. “Jack?!” Inside, Pitch was begging him to open his eyes. Pitch frantically needed to see Jack’s blue eyes and know that he was actually awake and alive. “Jack, listen to me. You need to wake up!” He hadn’t given him any nightmares. Pitch had made damn sure that Jack had no nightmares while stuck in oblivion. What was he seeing? He wanted so badly to know, but couldn’t. Not when he wasn’t the one creating this. “Jack, please!” Pitch tried to forget about the last time he’d begged like this. He tried, but was quickly failing. By now, Jack wasn’t screaming, but his body was still tense. His breathing was terribly shallow, terribly uneven. The gasps frightened Pitch more than the screaming. Admitting to himself that this scared him only made the burgeoning horror within him worse. “Jack Frost, you wake up this instant!”

Jack sat bolt upright, almost hitting Pitch as he did so. His eyes shot open, and were the widest Pitch had ever seen them. He was shaking, small sounds of panic escaping his lips. Pitch’s shoulders sagged at the sight of Jack sitting up and awake. The fear melted inside him, replaced with an overwhelming sense of relief. He wanted to grab the boy and shake him for all this situation has done to the Boogeyman. At the same time, he just wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let go.

When Jack’s eyes found Pitch’s, Pitch could see the tears freezing in Jack’s eyes. In one swift movement, Pitch was sitting on the bed with Jack pressed against his chest, the Guardian’s unbroken hand gripping the Nightmare King’s robes as he buried his face in Pitch’s neck. His whole body wracked with the sobs, Pitch holding him as tightly as he dared. “I can still feel them,” the boy managed past the cries. “I still feel—.”

“It’s okay, Jack.”

“—their hands—.”

“I’ve got you now.”

“—holding me down.”

“They won’t touch you again.” Pitch had made sure of that.

“Make it stop!” Jack begged, sobs coming harder now. Pitch squeezed his eyes shut as Jack managed to pull him even closer. He buried his nose and lips against Jack’s white hair, inhaling as much of the boy’s scent as he could. He was alive. He was alive, but horribly broken.

And this tore Pitch Black in two.

Sanderson and the Cossack entered the room, then. The relief on their faces at seeing Jack awake dissolved when they saw the state he was in. For the first time Pitch was aware of how he must have looked to them, a monster desperately clinging to a boy he had no business being attached to. He met their surprised gazes, but soon discovered how little he really cared about what they thought of him. He hadn’t noticed before, and even now that he had he really couldn’t bother to give a damn. He simply readjusted his hold on Jack so that he was holding the boy more comfortably and still closer to him. Closing his eyes and resting his chin on the top of Jack’s head, he didn’t see the others leave. There was only Jack. Just Jack.

And the desire to resurrect the bastards who’d hurt him and kill them all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the comments on the last piece really, really made me want to deliver. I hope I have delivered well for you all this morning.
> 
> Still taking prompts.
> 
> Thanks for everything, you guys.


End file.
